Lamented youth, thy spirit now has fled,
Thy youthful form in earth’s cold bosom lies.
Why art thou numbered with the early dead?
Who would not weep when one so lovely dies? PSAS 122.2
Why wert thou thus cut down in manhood’s bloom,
When life to thee was all a summer’s day.
Consigned unto the dark and silent tomb,
Nought but a lump of cold and lifeless clay? PSAS 122.3
And oft the mourner there doth go and weep,
And youthful friends shed many a bitter tear
For him who lies in his last, dreamless sleep,
For him they loved and ever held most dear. PSAS 122.4
We miss thee, brother, in our youth band,
Thy words of love, thy gentle accents sweet;
But thou hast left us in this dreary land,
No more shall we thy social presence greet. PSAS 122.5
Thou wast a noble youth, the younger son,
Thy father’s hope and solace in his years;
But short thy stay; ah! soon life’s labor done,
Soon thou hast left a weary vale of tears. PSAS 122.6
Yes; thou hast left a world of care and toil,
Where storms and tempests o’er our pathway rise,
Calmly to sleep beneath the verdant soil.
Till called triumphant to the upper skies. PSAS 123.1
Then rest thee, brother, free from all thy pain,
Above thee bloom the rose and violet fair.
We would not wish thee back to earth again,
But let thee calmly, sweetly, slumber there. PSAS 123.2